Perfection
by ChibiKagura
Summary: Her pencils are extensions of her soul that betray her innermost desires, scratching them in black and white for the world to see. Akira-centric with heavy Takumi x Akira implications.


Disclaimer: In my mind own them, but in reality I don't. I like to make pretty artsies, though. XD

A/N: I finally wrote some substantial Akira/Takumi! This fic is both serious and fluffy at the same time, kind of like Akira, ne? I have to agree with her here. Butt dimples ARE sexy!! XP I had fun writing this, so as always, please read and review! Ja!

Perfection

Akira's always ate lunch at a particular table in the far back corner of the cafeteria. The table was not wobbly or covered in the sticky residue of spilt soft drinks, its location kept her separate from the distracting hustle and bustle of hungry students, and it was always free. It was the perfect place for the young ninja, accompanied by a large, steaming bowl of pork ramen, to escape and devote herself to life's finer things. It had been a rough day; her teachers had insisted on bombarding her with every possible test, paper, and project, and she wanted nothing more than some time to rewind by herself. With a sigh, she placed her tray on the table and slid into a plastic-covered chair. Her nose took in the scent of pork and miso, and her muscles relaxed instantaneously. All the stress of her day was carried away by the fragrant clouds rising from the bowl in front of her. She separated her chopsticks, muttered "ittadakimasu," and began to slurp the noodles slowly, taking care not to spill a drop of broth on the table. When she had eaten enough, she set down her chopsticks and pulled a thin but well-loved sketchbook and some pencils from her backpack.

This was when her real lunchtime Zen began. She flipped through the pages, skimming past outlines of vague human figures until she came upon the page she wanted. With a smile, she touched the eraser of her pencil to her lips lightly as her eyes scanned the image, and she could not help but laugh at the goofy, incomplete drawing of a boy staring up at her. It looked too flat, so she began to darken the contours of his cheekbones and fill out his pouty lips. With the touch of her pencil, she made his shaggy, uneven bangs cast shadows on his nose and forehead. She gave life to his empty eyes, creating definition and shadows, drawing an iris and a pupil in each. Now he could see her too. Even in stationary black and white and covered with eraser smudges, his eyes seemed to sparkle with a fiery passion for life. Akira did not know if this was a reflection of her talent as an artist or of her selfish desire to see those same eyes in reality. The boy on the paper would not throw away his only life for such a foolish reason. He was still incomplete, and there were many more pages for the two them to fill.

Finishing the face, Akira held the book at arms' length and scrutinized her efforts. Although she was her toughest critic, she found no flaws with her work on the face. The body, however, needed much improvement. On her paper, she saw a frail, sickly boy looking over his small right shoulder with his hands dangling at his sides, but she wanted someone warm and strong. And she knew the hat she had the power to make her dreams a reality. She added just enough bulk to his shoulders to make him look healthy, and then began to mold the frail arms into arms capable of holding her tight. Erasing the lifeless arms, she made one hand trail behind him slightly as if tempting her to follow. The boy in her mind would want her by his side always. She suppressed the wave of longing that rose in her throat and continued drawing. In the art books she borrowed from the school library, she had been instructed to draw the body before adding clothing. Carefully, she captured every detail in the shoulder blades and back muscles before trailing her pencil down the curve of his spine. She paused, finding herself 

momentarily fascinated by the dimples in the small of his back. It was because she was an artist, she reasoned, blushing profusely. Artists are supposed to find beauty and perfection in things that ordinary people would find incredibly dull. Most others saw her muse as being "delicate" and "cute," and Akira had to agree to an extent. He was very cute, and the Gods only knew how pathetic the boy could act sometimes. But in her mind and on paper, he transformed into someone much more. He was beautiful, inside and out, even down to the butt dimples. Akira snickered at the direction in which her train of thought was headed, her 13-year-old sense of humor getting the better of her mature aesthetic sense.

"What's so funny, Akira?"

The ninja's giggles died abruptly as she snapped out of her fantasy. Her eyes darted upward and around, looking for the intruder who dared interrupt her peaceful lunch break. She saw a flash of red hair, which sparked a flutter inside her. Quite ungracefully, she made a hurried attempt to hide the unfinished artwork with her upper body. A pencil and a chopstick clattered to the linoleum floor and rolled under her chair. "Nothing!" she replied snarkily, sliding further down into her chair.

"I don't believe you. You're blushing!" Mai pressed. "What are you hiding? Manga?"

Akira scoffed. "Only idiots would find such a mass-produced art form entertaining."

"And the latest chapter of Naruto just materialized in my brother's backpack," the redhead countered, folding her arms across her chest.

"He could have bought it somewhere?" Akira asked sarcastically, squirming uncomfortably in her chair. She wanted Mai to just disappear because there was nothing that she hated more than getting jerked out of her artistic realm.

"They sell chapters with little notes scribbled in the margins pointing out everything the Okuzaki clan does differently? Give the poor artist a break! What happened to creative liberties?"

The ninja groaned, pushing her body off the table in her frustration. "I bought it because his constant begging was driving me INSANE. It's not like he BORROWED it from me or anything. Now GET THE HE- I mean PLEASE leave me alone, Tokiha. I'm trying to eat."

"Fine, fine. I'll let you eat then," the redhead replied coolly. "You might want this though," she added, bending to retrieve the runaway chopstick.

"Thanks," Akira muttered, sliding back into her seat.

"And this too." She made to set the pencil on the table, but the freshly uncovered sketchbook caught her eye. The ninja tried to snatch it back, but Mai was still too quick for her lightning reflexes. "You forgot something. May I?"

Akira grimaced as she watched the redhead carefully place marks on the paper. She refrained from retrieving her book from the other's hands, however, not wanting to disfigure the piece even further.

"There you go. Now it's perfect. Later!" Mai called, putting the sketchbook and pencil neatly back on the table before returning to her two friends.

Wondering what the redhead could have done to her creation, Akira scanned the figure up and down quickly for damage. Everything down to the most subtle shading looked the same as before. His eyes, peeking out from between his messy bangs still sparkled, and his arms still reached out to her. Finally, she had examined the entire drawing for any change except for where she had been when she was interrupted. Once again, she found herself getting inexplicably entranced by his lower back. Then she noticed it, the small dot just below where her eyes had dared to focus earlier. Apparently, he had a birthmark or some other blemish there that she had not been aware of, and Mai had been kind enough to add it. It was so difficult to notice without looking closely, though, and it did not seem to mar her vision's otherwise perfect skin. In fact, this little secret imperfection made him seem even more beautiful, more tangible. She wanted to know his other secrets, hear them from his lips directly. Somehow, she knew that she would someday. But for the time being, she had her pencils, sketchbook, and imagination.

Feeling a new connection to her art, the ninja closed her sketchbook and gathered her tray. Her drawing was complete. Careful not to spill a drop of ramen broth on her masterpiece, she placed the tray on the conveyor belt, put her sketchbook in her bag, and fought her way through the crowd of students moving towards their various classes. Her daily hour with Takumi was over, and she had to return to reality. This time, however, she gained an interesting fact about her roommate. Plotting ways to tease him about his birthmark would certainly be more entertaining than anything her teachers could ever say.

** Chibi-Kagura **


End file.
